Leather and Steel- Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: "Did you imagine that I got to where I am by shaking hands and kissing babies, Gregory?" Mycroft's silky voice was pitched low, and there was a hint of arrogance to it that the DI normally would have wanted to kiss away. Now, however, he was pretty sure that that response would land him in an institution, and that, only if he was very lucky. "No. But I never imagined this."
1. Leather and Steel

When Sherlock had simply texted him an address, Greg had assumed that it had something to do with the case they were currently working on. That was why he'd been understandably confused when he arrived to the warehouse and saw no sign of Sherlock or John, who would have at least thought to send him a text… unless they'd been kidnapped.

He thought he recognized the black motorbike parked near the door to the obviously abandoned place, but put it out of his mind, withdrawing his gun and holding it in both hands as he prepared to go in after the reckless idiots who had a higher close rate than anyone Greg had ever known. He'd seen a lot of things as DI, but one of the most remarkable was the strange but wonderful bond between the genius and his conductor of light, who managed to make Sherlock a little bit human. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the elder Holmes brother could be made a little more human as well, and scowled at himself.

Being single again, he reminded himself, was not a reason to fantasize about the most mysterious, handsome man he'd ever met. Even if by some miracle Mycroft was gay, or bisexual, or anything that would even give him the slightest chance, why would he ever want someone like Greg? He was sophisticated and polished, everything that the cop knew he would never be, and there was no chance of that ever happening.

Turning his mind back to his work, Greg began to move a little faster when he heard a shriek of pain, though fortunately it wasn't a voice he recognized. Finding Sherlock or John harming a suspect wouldn't be completely awful, and it also wouldn't be the first time. They were so overprotective of one another, he didn't understand how they had missed the fact that they were both in love with the other. He just figured they'd catch on eventually, and fervently hoped he wasn't there when they did.

Quick, silent steps took the cop into the heart of the warehouse, and he heard another long, drawn-out moan. No, this wasn't like Sherlock and John at all, he thought, frowning. Was something else going on here? He couldn't imagine why they would want him to be there… at least, he didn't understand until he peeked the corner, finger ready on the safety of his pistol just in case, and found Mycroft Holmes, dressed in black leather, smiling coolly down at a man strapped to a table with several small, red cuts covering his skin.

"Are you going to tell me what you know, or do I have to get… creative?" The man practically purred the words, ignoring the whimpers of his captive.

"I… I'll tell you anything! Please, please don't kill me." The man was a mess now, babbling and spewing out all his deepest, darkest secrets, and Mycroft pulled out his phone and quickly dialed his assistant. As if on cue, she and another man emerged from a different doorway on the far side from where Greg watched from the shadows, wheeling the man out on the metal stretcher that had been holding him in place.

Letting out a shuddering breath, the DI thanked whatever God existed that it was over… and then he froze when Mycroft glanced up sharply, those mercurial eyes meeting his and widening for a long moment before his normal expression of cool indifference—a shield, Greg's racing mind provided—settled over his features.

Knowing that the game was up, Greg swallowed and walked into the room, careful not to put his pistol away. He didn't think that Mycroft would try to use that knife on him, and he knew better than to try and report the government man. Even if he could get past his affection for the elder Holmes brother, no one would believe him anyway.

As if sensing the direction of the DI's thoughts, the other man smiled a little, a fake expression, before grabbing a rag and painstakingly wiping the blood off the knife before sliding it into a leather sheathe on his hip. He'd obviously done this before. It was only when he spoke that Greg realized that though his claws were currently sheathed, that could change at any moment. The whole world underestimated this man. He wasn't only dangerous in an office. He was just plain _dangerous_, and for some reason, that fact sent all sorts of chills running up and down his spine, and not the bad kind, either.

Mycroft's expression changed when he saw the shiver Greg couldn't subdue, as if he'd disappointed him somehow. Then the mask was back, colder than ever. The cop would almost have believed the rumors, then, that Mycroft had traded his heart for his power. He just might have fallen for it, were it not for the emotion he'd seen in the man's eyes just moments ago. He might be the Ice Man to the world, but there was a molten core beneath.

"Did you imagine that I got to where I am by shaking hands and kissing babies, Gregory?" Mycroft's silky voice was pitched low, and there was a hint of arrogance to it that the DI normally would have wanted to kiss away. Now, however, he was pretty sure that that response would land him in an institution, and that, only if he was very lucky.

"No. But I never imagined this." Running a hand through his silver hair, Greg glanced around the warehouse to make sure they were the only people there before holstering his gun, well aware that even if he'd been forced to choose between living or dying, he couldn't put a bullet in beautiful, dangerous Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft stared at the man he'd loved from afar almost from the first time he'd seen him, silently cursing his brother for this. He'd known, had to have known, about his infatuation with the DI. And this was his revenge for even that small intrusion on Sherlock's world, even if he'd never meant to do anything about it. There was no way he would ever be able to seduce the silver fox now, even if he'd worked up the guts. Now that Lestrade had seen him as a monster, he doubted he would ever be able to look at him without seeing blood on his hands.

And yet, the government man thought, it was probably for the best. Now he could let go of his foolish hopes and focus on reality, instead of dreaming that he might ever earn the right to call this man his. It had always been a pipe dream anyway.

"No, I don't suppose you did. There are likely a number of things about me that you would never intuit." Mycroft couldn't quite hide the bitterness in his tone, and he knew his lips had turned up in a humorless smile. Greg looked confused, and he decided he might as well lay it all out on the table. Undoubtedly the DI already considered him a villain, which wasn't entirely wrong. He did bad things, but he did them to bad people, in the pursuit of good. He knew that to a man like Lestrade, who wore honor like a second skin, his motivations wouldn't matter half so much as his actions. And that was probably what made him do what he did next.

Rounding the table slowly, letting the other man track his every movement with his eyes, Mycroft waited until they were only inches apart before stopping, grateful that the DI was only an inch shorter because he did not want to look down at him while he did this.

Almost painfully gradually, now, he reached up and tangled the fingers of one hand in that silver hair while the other hand moved to Greg's hip, holding him still so that he would have to struggle to get away when Mycroft's lips came down on his.

Greg's eyes widened as the other man kissed him, stunned that his dream seemed to be coming true, despite everything else he'd witnessed that night. Letting out a little gasp, he responded to the kiss eagerly, aware that if it was the only time he would ever get to touch this man, he wanted to do it right. In the meantime, he let his hands wander as they pleased, over muscled shoulders, down a leather-covered chest, and then around to cup Mycroft's arse and grind their hips together.

Mycroft wondered if he was dreaming as he drowned in the kiss, surprisingly gentle despite their environment and the degree of lust he felt for this man. His body was burning up beneath the leather, and he could never remember feeling this way about anyone else, even when they were naked and beneath him panting his name. Nothing had ever given him a thrill like this, and he never wanted the kiss to end.

But end it did, as is true of all good things, and Mycroft, unable to bear the thought of whatever he might find in Gregory's eyes, turned away with his eyes closed, opening them only to head toward the door and get on his motorcycle so he could go home. He didn't make it two steps before Greg had spun him around and drawn them together again, pupils blown wide as if he was drowning in lust… his expression an echo of the feelings Mycroft was currently struggling with as well.

"I—" He started, but didn't get any farther because just then, Greg's lips were crushing down on his again, and coherent thought went out the window.

"You turn me on so God damned bad, all leather and steel and danger. Let me take you, Mycroft. Even if you hate me in the morning." Greg's voice was a low growl, and it went straight to the taller man's groin, making him almost impossibly hard.

"The only one who might regret this is you. If you take me tonight, you don't get to walk away." Mycroft answered demand for demand, because blind compliance wasn't in him, and he was relieved to hear Greg's dark laugh, just before he found himself pressed up against the warehouse wall—how had they gotten here?—with a knee rubbing at his crotch, making him moan low in desire.

"That sounds fine by me. Take me home on that bike of yours and I'll keep you up every night for the rest of our lives. Provided you dress like this more often. I like the suits, don't get me wrong, but you're a fucking wet dream in these leathers, Mycroft."

The government man was the one who shivered now, taking Greg at his word and snagging his wrist, pulling him toward the door. Greg followed, his footsteps every bit as urgent as Mycroft's.

Ignoring the fact that this was all almost too good to be true, Greg pushed Mycroft back against the door almost as soon as they were safe inside, devouring his mouth as if he'd spent his entire life starving for this one man, this one moment. And maybe he had; he only knew that the world was on fire, and the only thing that could keep him from burning up was this man's touch, despite the fact that every stray caress had flames licking over his skin.

Pulling Mycroft away from the door, Greg shoved his leather jacket off his shoulders to land on the floor, but neither of them paid it any mind, too busy trying to divest one another of their remaining garments. Mycroft was practically poured into the leather clothing he'd been wearing, tight fitting pants and a vest with silver buckles running up the center, a strange reflection of the button down suits he normally wore. He was a marvel of leather and steel, but Greg couldn't spend nearly as much time savoring that fact as he wanted. He'd wanted this for far too long, and couldn't seem to stop himself from practically tearing at the garments to get to skin.

Mycroft seemed to share his sense of immediacy, fortunately, because those nimble fingers, which only half an hour ago had been wielding a knife with precision and slicing into another man's skin, had already undone his trousers and were busy shoving them down his hips. His shirt was next, quick since it was one of his rare days off and he'd been wearing a tee shirt, and then they were both standing there in just their pants, staring wide-eyed at one another as if they couldn't believe what was happening.

Greg was the first to recover, and though he didn't know exactly where the bedroom was, he followed a hunch and tugged Mycroft up the stairs, a direction they'd been stumbling in their mad rush to strip one another down. The younger man opened the door and took the lead, pulling Greg inside and practically throwing him on the bed. Grinning wickedly, Greg waited until he was close enough before turning the tables on him, grabbing him and flipping them so Mycroft was beneath him.

"Lube." Mycroft said breathlessly, snagging it off the nightstand and shoving it into Greg's hands. Understanding instantly, he grabbed the waistband of Mycroft's pants and yanked them down his hips, discarding them off the side of the bed before following them with his own. And then he was slicking himself up.

"In me. _Now_." Mycroft practically snarled the words at him when Greg went to slather his fingers with the stuff and prepare the other man properly. Taking him at his word, because he honestly wasn't sure how much longer he was going to last, Greg leaned down and delivered a bruising kiss against Mycroft's lips while slipping inside him, the tightness making him moan while Mycroft let out a cry of pleasure and pain, one seemingly feeding the other.

Figuring out what his partners wanted had always been a skill of the DI's, and he understood that this was not a moment in which to slow down and make sure his partner was comfortable. He set a brutal pace, thrusting in with an animalistic passion that had Mycroft sliding nails down his back, the sting warning him that he would probably be sore in the morning, and possibly need to shower off blood. Somehow, the idea of wearing Mycroft's marks on his skin, evidence of a complete loss of composure, spurred him on, and he moved even faster until, with a scream, Mycroft threw his head back and released all over their chests.

Greg followed soon after, inadvertently biting Mycroft's lip and tasting blood as he did so. He continued moving until he was spent and then flopped to his side, unsure what would be expected of him now.

Apparently gentled by what they'd just done, Mycroft instantly followed him, laying his head on his shoulder and draping an arm over his torso, tangling their legs together. For such a normally immaculate man, he seemed extremely unconcerned about the mess they'd just made.

"So what is this, then?" He asked after a moment, tilting his head up to look at the DI. Greg looked at him for a moment and then laughed, dipping his head to give him another kiss before responding.

"I don't know. But it feels too damn good to walk away from. I'm in this if you are."

Mycroft thought about that for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he wasn't going to take this connection with the cop he'd wanted from afar for so long for granted.

"Then stay. Stay the night, stay however long you'd like." Greg nodded, then smirked, an unholy gleam in his eyes.

"If I do, will I get a repeat performance with you all done up in leather and steel?" Mycroft smirked back.

"I think that could be arranged." And then they were both lost to another smoldering kiss, and spoke no more.


	2. Candlelight and Silk

Mycroft Holmes had a great appreciation for texture. His shirts were of the finest cloth, his suits elegant and comfortable despite their appearance, and everything in his office, from his desk down to the paint on the wall, was smooth and streamlined. He was a man who loved the finer things in life, and spared no expense when it came to his comfort. And he didn't need to.

It turned out that being both an extraordinarily powerful government official and an agent of the government, when the need arose for someone with skills far above those of ordinary agents, paid extremely well. He could have virtually anything he wanted. If he wanted to carpet the floors of his house in rabbit fur, he could make it happen with a couple of quick phone calls. Not that he would do something that ridiculous, however. There was a place for luxury, and he liked to keep a balance between comfort and professionalism in nearly every aspect of his life.

His current date, however, blurred those lines quite nicely, and if his skin wasn't as soft as Mycroft would have liked, as the life of a DI made him a bit more weathered and calloused than he would otherwise be, he certainly made up for it.

"I didn't know that you could eat out without having someone else check for poison first." Greg chuckled, and the sound skated along Mycroft's senses pleasantly, the low rumble of his voice almost tangible against his skin. Yes, the cop could be extremely charming when he chose to be, and though this was their first official date, they both knew it was only a prelude to what would follow. And it was not their first time for that.

"Don't be silly, Lestrade. No one would dare poison me." And if they'd tried, Anthea would have already seen to it and replaced his meal with a different one, all before it even came out from the kitchens. His assistant was efficient like that, and he was far too important to be killed if the government could help it.

"I suppose you're right. You'd go all scary on them, and they'd end up confessing their every little deep dark secret under your knife." The reference to the night they'd started what lay between them was not lost on Mycroft, who was smiling a little wickedly even before his companion continued. "And it's Gregory. I feel like we should be on a first name basis, considering I was screwing your brains out just last week."

Since it was a fair point, Mycroft only shrugged and cut into his steak, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. There was something immensely satisfying about relaxing with the confusing but irresistible DI after a long week, and he was looking forward to keeping him in bed for the rest of the weekend, just as soon as they got back to his place.

"Yes. But I'm not wearing leather tonight." Mycroft felt like he should tease a little, though it wasn't really his strong suit, just because it usually made Greg laugh, or at least smile. His laughter was incredible, and he really ought to do it more often.

"Doesn't seem to matter. And anyway, at this point, I just want you out of any and all clothes. I've got you in my blood now, Mycroft Holmes, and I doubt I'll be kicking the need anytime soon." The pure intensity in Greg's voice and eyes set fire to Mycroft's blood, and there was little more talking as the two of them finished their meals rather quickly.

After paying, Mycroft led Greg outside, to where his motorbike was parked and waiting for him. He fired it up and straddled it, raising an eyebrow at Greg in a silent command to get on. The cop didn't even ask about his own car as he slipped right on and pressed up against the politician, still in a crisp black suit, trusting that it would find its way wherever Mycroft dropped him off whenever he released him.

Greg was hoping that would be at the end of a very long weekend with a rule against clothes of any type, but there was no real way of knowing when it came to Mycroft. He'd accepted that long before, and though the events of the week before had certainly changed his dynamic with the mysterious man, there was still a lot he didn't know.

"Your place or mine?" Mycroft asked, though they both already knew the answer.

"Yours."

Among other things, Mycroft Holmes had a great appreciation of settings. In the right setting, people were willing to do nearly anything they were prompted to do, all because their very environment was suggestive of it. For torture or kidnapping, he preferred dirty, neglected places, locations that made it clear that no one would hear his victims scream without him ever having to say it out loud. There was a lot to be said for one's environment, and the way it could influence one.

For tonight, Mycroft was trying his hand at romance. Instead of devouring each other tonight, he wanted to see if he and Gregory could connect on a somewhat deeper level. Instead of a quick tumble as soon as they entered his mansion in the country, Mycroft put a gentle hand on Greg's chest when he moved to kiss him, stopping him only an inch away so they could feel the heat from each other's bodies. Greg raised an eyebrow, and Mycroft only smiled before stepping away.

He lead the cop up the stairs to the master bedroom, which was already prepared for the night's seduction. He'd placed the candles himself an hour before the date, but had instructed Anthea to arrive ten minutes ago and light them. There was a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket right beside his private hot tub, and the bed was made with silk sheets. The candles were flickering, casting firelight all around the room, highlighting the silver in Greg's hair. His flat in the city, which he'd taken Greg to the first time, wasn't half as nice as this.

"Like what you see?" Mycroft practically purred to his companion, who was looking around the room as if awestruck. At his words, however, the cop's focus redirected instantly to Mycroft, and the slow, seductive smile that came his way threatened to buckle his knees and ruin his plans for the night in the most delightful of ways.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't really, _really_ like what I see, Mycroft." It was a fair point, and Mycroft didn't pretend otherwise. The situation was an anomaly for him, but he thought he knew what he wanted out of it.

"Well, if that's the case…" Mycroft slowly removed his suit, piece by piece, as if he had all the time in the world. He folded everything neatly, even though he'd be sending it to the cleaners, and it was a good five minutes before he was finally bare. Not giving Greg time to study him in great detail, he turned and made his way to the bed, lying down and putting his arms behind his head, completely relaxed.

"I believe it's my turn, Gregory." Greg swallowed hard at this, but stripped himself down, more quickly, and climbed into the bed with Mycroft. He didn't really know what to expect, especially when Mycroft leaned close and started kissing him languidly, his tongue slipping inside to stroke against Greg's and creating a strange bone-melting sensation that sent heat low, pooling in his gut.

"I want to take you tonight, Gregory. I want you to do nothing but enjoy this…" With that the politician practically slithered down the bed, sighing at the sensation of silk sliding along his bare skin before he took the DI into his mouth, earning a harsh cry of pleasure as he completely engulfed him. After everything he'd been through, he no longer had a gag reflex, and as such could enjoy this every bit as much as his lover did.

Again and again, Mycroft brought Greg to the brink, until he was practically sobbing for something, anything, to ease the ache. Knowing that the older man had never taken before, Mycroft was careful with him, not wanting him to remember pain when he looked back on this night. Their first time had been messy, brought about by the faintest hint of violence and danger. That was a fire that had raged, but this interaction would be a slow simmer, would take its time to build. Candlelight and silk would be their motivation this time.

Finally Mycroft could take no more, his careful patience shattered by the broken pleas of the man beneath him, and he slid inside, admiring the way Greg's face was caressed by the flickering flames of the candles, the way his lips parted and a harsh breath escaped as his eyes, blown wide with pleasure, locked on Mycroft's.

Unable to resist, Mycroft bent to capture his mouth as he moved slow and deep, steady as the ocean on a calm night drawn into movement only by the moon. Their hands joined, though it was not a conscious action, and soon they were moving together, the pace unhurried, the faint sound of silk rustling beneath them mingling with the sound of their breath in the otherwise silent house.

Subtly, things began to change. No longer was it a slow seduction, but an increasingly frantic race to the finish, with hands grasping skin, mouths sucking and licking and nipping, and bodies writhing as they pushed one another higher, higher, higher…

And then they came, almost at the same moment, Mycroft burying himself to the hilt while Gregory threw his head back and splattered both of them. They came down slowly, tangled up in one another just as the clock struck midnight. Mycroft laughed softly, at the realization that he'd spent two gloriously long hours taking the DI apart.

"So that's what the hot tub's for." Greg remarked as Mycroft tugged him gently into a sitting position. He smiled before half-carrying the older man over to the tub and switching it on. At once bubbles started churning up from the depths, and Greg accepted his lover's assistance. He winced a little when he settled onto one of the seats, but the water quickly began working away at the tension in his body, and it drained away even as Mycroft settled in and pulled him close for cuddling—something they'd certainly not done during their first night together.

"Actually, Anthea was the one who installed it, while I was away in Germany for a week on business. She was under the impression that I did not know how to relax." Greg laughed a little, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's neck before flicking his tongue out to taste. Once he was content, he let Mycroft pull away and pour them both a glass of wine, which they enjoyed as they discussed their weeks.

There were a number of things far above Greg's clearance rating, but they talked around those matters, focusing instead on the more humorous things, like the moment when Greg actually caught Sherlock nicking his cuffs and John forced him to apologize for it in front of everyone who happened to be in earshot at the Yard.

Eventually they finished their drinks and got out, and Mycroft went around the room and extinguished the candles one by one, before sliding beneath the sheets and wrapping himself around his lover. They slept peacefully, dreaming of candlelight and silk and the promise of something new but extraordinary that was almost within their reach.


End file.
